


(Un)Wanted

by Marzarelo



Category: Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Haunting, Heavy Drinking, M/M, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-31
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-11 13:22:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16476356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Marzarelo/pseuds/Marzarelo
Summary: Supreme Leader Kylo Ren has died in battle.  Armitage Hux rises to power in his place and leads the First Order to win the war.  It's everything Hux ever wanted, but it leaves him unsatisfied.  And there is something hovering on the periphery of his awareness.  Something keeps him company even when he's alone.  Whether he's being haunted or going mad, he can't say for sure.





	(Un)Wanted

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by [this conversation thread](https://twitter.com/icicaille_/status/1051637389494575104) over on Twitter.

Ren was gone. For good. His body was recovered from the wreckage of his TIE Silencer and now it lay cold, preserved in a storage capsule until a break in the ongoing battle allowed them enough time to address their fallen Supreme Leader. Hux had identified the corpse himself, too stunned to fully process it. Only that morning those lifeless eyes had watched him dress while he pretended not to be flattered by the attention. That broad chest had pressed against his back, arms encircled his waist, warm and possessive while he’d brewed his tea and browsed through morning reports. 

Or maybe it hadn’t been that morning. He hadn’t actually slept in quite a while, and all the days were running together. There was no time to sleep, anyway. No time to think of anything except the battle in front of him. The Resistance expected them to be crippled by the loss of their leader, but Hux would prove that false. He’d commanded the First Order’s armies _before_ Ren came into power, and he could still do it just as well now. Better, even. He was wiser now, had more experience, and he didn’t have Ren’s fragile ego and reckless outbursts in his way.

(He should have never let Ren go into battle. He should have stopped him. Should have insisted that their Supreme Leader was too valuable to risk losing, even if it was a lie. Ren might have argued, might have been angry, might have accused Hux of doubting him and his abilities, but maybe, _maybe_ he would have relented. Maybe he would still be here.)

“They’re coming around again for another pass, Grand Marshal!”

( _More are coming, Supreme Leader!_ )

“They’re scattering our fighters, sir!”

( _You’re too far out, Supreme Leader! We can’t cover you!_ )

“Shields are damaged, but holding!”

( _Fall back! Ren!_ )

Enemy fire breaking against the shields sent a tremor through the bridge, shook the plating beneath the soles of his boots. He didn’t stumble, didn’t even waver in his stance, but something else did. Out of the corner of his eye he saw it: A dark shape, unsteady like fabric in the wind. Someone was standing beside him, probably preparing to support him if another barrage struck, but when Hux turned to order that person back to their post he found the space beside him empty. His attention snapped back to the battle raging all around him. “All fighters fall back and regroup! Stay close and let them come to us.”  
*

*  
There was no funeral for Ren. None of his supposedly loyal subordinates seemed to lament his passing and Hux, in his newly acquired position of highest authority, would not put himself through the spectacle of public mourning for a fallen leader who nobody missed. Once the war was won, Hux saw that Ren’s remains were respectfully disposed of in the heart of a dying star, and his time as Supreme Leader was commemorated with a tasteful monument. 

Now a sea of people stretched out before of him, every one of them focused on him and his words. There was a time when he lived for these moments. There was a time when this moment in particular would have been the highest point in his entire life. All the time spent working, climbing ranks, he aspired to this ultimate goal. Now that he had it, it felt empty.

His smile was empty. The energy in his speech was a lie. At the moment all he wanted was solitude, a moment to himself to gather his thoughts after all that had happened over the last few days. (Weeks? It was so hard to keep track.) Maybe if he just had some time to process it all he could properly enjoy everything he’d achieved and revel in his newfound power. But there was no time for that. He had to be the face of their victory over the resistance. His coronation was approaching. His people needed him.

He did not miss Ren. He never would have wanted him here. He didn’t need him. He’d done all this himself, and he’d _never_ needed him. But then why did this feel so hollow? Maybe he just regretted missing the opportunity to rub his success in Ren’s face. And his father’s face. Snoke’s face. All of them who had dared to look down on him and use him and treat him like he was nothing. He tried to focus on that, let his anger at Ren drive the passion in his speech. Anger for Ren’s flaws, his recklessness, his failure, despite having everything in life handed to him.

Ren should have killed him. For a time he was certain Ren _would_ kill him, that he was dragging things out, tormenting him and waiting for the right moment to make his death as painful and humiliating as possible. But then things had gone… much differently than he’d expected.

But that was all over now. It was over, and Ren was gone, and he was the sole ruler of nearly the entire galaxy. _Him! Alone! Just as he’d always dreamed, he did this alone! Alone, alone, oh, Stars, why had he always thought he wanted to do all of this alone?_

He felt a touch on the small of his back. He shouldn’t have been able to feel it through the layers of his uniform and greatcoat, but he did. Just the lightest graze of fingers on his skin and his voice faltered mid-sentence. There was a split second of awkward silence, all eyes staring at him expectantly until he continued his speech as if nothing had happened.  
*

*  
His chambers were quiet, but they never felt empty. He would retire each evening, but he never felt alone in his rooms. There was something there, he was sure of it. Either that or he was going mad. The latter was entirely possible.

It started out as small, easily ignored incidents. He regularly saw movement out of the corner of his eye. The shape of a dark figure standing just beside him. A glimpse of someone behind him in a mirror. Then whenever he turned to look properly, there was nothing.

Some time later, he began hearing noises. A tap. A footstep. A whisper. He had his chambers repeatedly checked and treated for pest animals, but to no avail. Nothing was ever found, and the noises didn’t stop.

Then he started misplacing things. Small objects were never where he remembered leaving them. He thought at first that he was becoming forgetful, but on a couple of occasions he would set something down, look away for only a moment, and then it would be gone. Twice his cup of tea was knocked to the floor the moment he looked away from it.

It was Ren. It had to be. (He so desperately wanted it to be.) Who else would devote themselves to tormenting him from the afterlife? After all, he deserved it. It was his fault. He never could shake the guilt. Of all the deaths he’d caused, directly or indirectly, why was Ren’s the only one that he regretted? He’d meant to kill Ren anyway to take his place as leader, but he just… hadn’t gotten to it yet. It was never the right time. Then Ren had been killed in battle because Hux had failed to stop him from charging recklessly into the fight himself. And then he felt _guilty about it. Why??_

His glass was empty again. He’d lost track of how many he’d had, but one more couldn’t hurt. He tipped the bottle of brandy to fill his glass again when he felt the brush of cool breath on his ear, heard a low, familiar voice whisper his name. His hand slipped. His glass broke, and the bottle dropped to the floor.

The room was spinning from the alcohol in his system when he stood suddenly and swept the broken glass and all other objects off of the table. He couldn’t take this anymore. His eyes stung and the back of his hand hurt where the edge of the broken glass had cut into it. “What do you want!? WHAT DO YOU WANT FROM ME!? It’s not my fault, it’s yours! You never listened to me! YOU SHOULD HAVE LISTENED TO ME!”

The only response to his outburst was silence. He sank to his knees clutching his injured hand and the first pathetic sob escaped him. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Ren. I’m sorry…”

Silence answered him again.  
*

*  
He distinctly remembered that Force Ghosts were an actual phenomenon that existed. He’d heard it mentioned at some point in his life, that powerful Force users could actually manifest after death. There were actual documented cases of it, though they were few and the sources hardly seemed reliable. That explained all of these occurrences, though. Ren was an exceptionally powerful Force user. If anyone could manifest after death, surely it would be him.

He began conducting private research on the matter. If he could learn more maybe he could actually contact Ren in some way, or find a way to aid Ren in his efforts to manifest. If he could talk to Ren, maybe he could reason with him and put an end to all this. (Maybe he could apologize for failing him. Maybe he could just see his face one more time.)

Research proved unhelpful. Every bit of information he found stressed the importance of being Force-sensitive in order to communicate with or even perceive these ghosts, and he knew he was _not_ Force-sensitive. He and so many others were rigorously tested for it when he was a child, and if he’d shown any indication of Force-sensitivity at all his life might have gone much differently. But if some sort of connection with the Force was required to perceive Force Ghosts, and he was about as Force-sensitive as a dead battery, then what was happening to him?

Gods, he must really be going mad.

He told no one about any of this. Not the feeling of a presence in his chambers, the noises, the movements in the corner of his eye, _the voices_ , none of it. He was afraid to know what it all might mean in regard to his mental health, or even his physical health. Maybe he had a tumor eating away at his brain and causing all these hallucinations and the forgetfulness that made him misplace things. He had regular health scans and nothing ever turned up, but that did little to comfort him. Maybe it was still too small to be seen on the scans, or maybe-- Well, he wasn’t sure what other circumstance to blame, but mistakes were always possible.

It was all surely a sign that his brain was rotting away, and there was nothing to be done about it. (Maybe he didn’t want anything to be done about it, anyway.)  
*

*  
Years passed and Hux told no one. He began to spend more time secluded in his chambers as he aged. As much as thoughts of Ren caused him anguish, the phantom presence became a sort of comfort. When he caught a flash of movement in his peripheral vision, he could close his eyes and imagine Ren was _just there_ beside him. That he might stand behind him and slip his arms around his waist the way he used to in the mornings before he left for his shift. He’d never been spiritual or superstitious in any way and this felt like a dangerous sort of indulgence, but he couldn’t stop. What did he have to lose at this point, anyway? His power? His title? Both had begun to feel like an unwanted burden a long time ago.

The _encounters_ , he noticed, seemed more intense when he drank. He wasn’t sure if it was because the alcohol relaxed his mind and made him more susceptible to these hallucinations, or if it angered Ren’s spirit to see him drunk, but when he drank things were more often moved and broken. Once or twice he even saw something move before his eyes. He also heard the voice, though it never whispered more than his name in varying tones of anger or desperation. It sent a thrill through him, like a lover’s touch, every time he heard it.

He missed Ren. He’d been missing Ren since the moment of his passing. It took a long time for him to realize it, even longer to accept it as true, and all the while he hated himself for it. He thought he hated Ren. Thought he’d been using him, lulling him into a false sense of security, waiting for the right moment to take his power. He should have rejoiced over Ren’s death, but he didn’t. He _couldn’t_. There’d been no joy in it for him at all.

It was possible, he thought, that he may have loved Ren. He’d never really loved anyone before, or since, so he had little basis for comparison, but the lack of Ren’s presence making him ache inside and out was such a unique sort of misery he thought it could only be caused by love. Love was painful, like a sickness, and it made people weak. (It made him so weak.) Still, he wished he could see Ren one more time. He wondered what it would be like to look at someone when they were right in front of him, real and alive, and know that he loved them instead of learning it after the fact and looking back when it was already too late.

At night he drank, sometimes the ghost in his head broke things and whispered angrily to him, then he went to bed. He had vague dreams that he couldn’t recall, and sometimes he woke shaking, crying, and clinging to something that wasn’t there.  
*

*  
His hair has gone almost completely grey. He knew it had to have been a gradual process, but somehow he hadn’t noticed until he glanced at himself in the mirror one night when he went to wash his face before bed. But maybe he didn’t notice because he spent more time looking over his shoulder in the mirror, hoping for a glimpse of the ghost, than looking at himself. Now that he was really looking, he hardly recognized himself. He looked old, and tired. (He was both. He was old, and he was so very tired.)

He couldn’t find his glass, and he didn’t know if he’d misplaced it himself or if it was _the ghost_. (There was no ghost. He knew that. _He knew that_. But sometimes it felt better to pretend, and other times it hurt less to remind himself that he was simply a madman.) Either way, he didn’t have the energy to go looking for it. He could order a new one from the kitchens, but he didn’t bother. He didn’t have a taste for brandy at the moment, anyway.

His chambers where quiet. The silence lulled him to sleep, and once he closed his eyes he wasn’t alone.

“Hux.”

Ren was there in front of him. He knew he’d dreamed of Ren before, but he always felt like a distant impression or a memory, blurry features and muddled voice. This Ren was sharp and clear as if the both of them were wide awake and real and standing right before each other. They both reached toward each other at once, like mirror images moving together, and clasped one another’s arms. He could feel the pressure of Ren’s hands on his biceps, and the heavy fabric texture of Ren’s sleeves under his own hands. “Ren.”

“Hux, I tried. I tried for so long! I didn’t think I could ever get through, but I had to try! I’m sorry, Hux. I’m so--”

“Shut up!” Hux’s vision was swimming. He knew this wasn’t real, it couldn’t be, but Ren was here, he could see him and hear him and feel him and _smell him_ and it hurt _so much_. Then he had the nerve to _apologize_ when guilt had been eating Hux alive for decades! “How dare you say that! How dare you _mock me_ because I failed!” He failed to kill Ren himself, failed to want him dead at all, failed not to grow attached, failed not to need Ren, failed to keep Ren alive. He failed to betray, and he failed to be loyal. He failed Ren in every way. “ _I’m_ sorry!!”

“You didn’t,” Ren said. “You didn’t fail. You did everything you set out to do. I’ve been here. I’ve seen it. You succeeded after _I_ failed _you_.” Ren’s hand came to rest on Hux’s cheek, broad and warm and _so real_ even though it couldn’t possibly be. “I tried to reach you. I couldn’t rest until I did, but you kept pulling away, clouding your mind with drink and slipping away and I _couldn’t_ \--” Ren’s eyes were so wide and ernest, brimming with tears. “You were right. You were always right, you were meant to lead and I was a fool. I’m just sorry I didn’t see... and I’m sorry I didn’t come back, the way I promised I would.”

“I don’t want it.” Hux placed his hand over Ren’s where it rested on his cheek, though he wasn’t sure if he wanted to pull it away or lean into it. “I don’t want it. I don’t want any of it. I thought I did, but by the time I realized it was too late.”

His crown had always felt hollow and heavy all at once. Once he had it, he never understood why he’d wanted it in the first place. There was one thing he wanted, and he had it once, but it was long beyond his grasp by the time he knew how badly he wanted it.  
*

*  
Emperor Armitage Hux passed away quietly in his sleep. It was unexpected, though not entirely surprising at his age. He never married, left no heir behind to take his place. A new emperor was elected, and the empire he formed carried on without him. He was honored with a lavish funeral, and commemorated with a tasteful monument placed in a spot next to the one for the forgotten leader who ruled before him.

All things that live are borrowed energy that rejoins the Force after death, even those with no sensitivity. But some believe strong spirits can linger on the edge, waiting for another to join them. Only once they find one another can they both be at peace.

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry, I just sort of pounded this out without really planning anything, but I hope it's a little spooky.
> 
> Happy Halloween, folks.


End file.
